Tell Me Everything (19 page)

As we watched, Malcolm started to pick his nose thoroughly, wiping his fingers on the cushion. I put my hand over my mouth in disgust, but Liz just sighed and picked up the pile of books that were on the shelf behind her. “There's almost too many,” she said. “I never thought I'd say this, but I'm not sure we couldn't get rid of half the books in here. I see people come into the library full of good resolutions, but after five minutes browsing the shelves they lose their will to live, let alone read. They slink out empty-handed and go home to watch the television instead.”

“I didn't,” I said, trying not to look at what Malcolm was doing now. “But then I suppose you helped me choose.”

I followed Liz through to the adult fiction section. “How's Bob?” I asked. “I think you're such a perfect couple together.”

She slammed books hard from one side of the desk to the other. “Married,” she said. “And not to me.”

I muttered something about being sorry.

“It's just all so sordid and predictable,” she said. “I didn't even have to ask him. I had all the information at my fingertips. I looked him up on the library files and there it was. The whole history. His wife has a penchant for trashy thrillers, although I did notice she's started to take out large-print books. No wonder she doesn't see what's going on in front of her eyes.”

“So you're not seeing him anymore?”

“Of course I am,” she said. “But I won't get even a sniff of his pension now, will I? Not if he's married.”

“Maybe you're still his true love though,” I said.

She stamped her way firmly and with precision through the piles of books sitting in front of the computer. “Maybe, but why should I be the one who does all the work while Mrs. Romantic Thriller scoops the final rewards?” she asked.

I stayed silent because I couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't annoy her. I'd seen how white her knuckles were as she clutched the date stamp. Charlie Canterbury could probably have given advice on poison or general first-wife murdering skills but she must have left the library when Liz and I were concentrating on watching Malcolm.

“Anyway, enough of me,” she said eventually. “How are things going with you?”

I grinned. “Brilliant,” I said. “I can't quite believe it all.” I wanted to tell her about Mrs. Roberts and the shop, but now didn't seem to be the right time.

Liz smiled. “You've blossomed, Molly. It's been a joy to watch. So you really want me to choose you a book?”

I nodded. “Although—”

“Had enough of romance?”

“No! I wondered about something actually written in French. Do you have those?” I asked.

“Have we done Nin?” she asked. “Not traditionally French, of course, but I think she'll pass.” And then she went off to search the foreign language shelves before handing me the thinnest book I'd had from her yet.

W
hen I got back to the stationery shop the closed sign was still up but the door was unlocked. I pushed it open gently, trying to think of excuses of why I'd shut up shop in case Mrs. Roberts had come in while I was at the library, but no one was there. There was no sign that anyone had come or gone.

My hands were shaking as I checked the till. All the cash from this morning seemed to be there. I walked round the displays. I couldn't see any obvious gaps or damage. I picked up one of the balls of rubber bands we'd been selling like hot cakes and threw it from hand to hand to settle myself. I put it up to my nose to smell the metallic tang of the rubber.

“Hello,” I called out, my voice quivering. No reply. I went upstairs to check, but everything was just as I had left it there too. I must have left the door unlocked myself. I tried to feel reassured and bustled around, putting on the kettle and making some tea to take back to the front of the shop, but I still couldn't get rid of a feeling of unease.

Luckily the shop was busy that afternoon. I propped my book up at the till but hardly had time to look at it. In between customers I rushed round clearing up displays, making sure nothing was out of place, taking pleasure from flicking open the blank pages of the notebooks, even color coordinating the box files so they created a rainbow on the shelf. I decided to make sure Mrs. Roberts was
enchantee
with me. She never had to know I'd left the shop open to all comers.

She came back at six. I quickly hid my French novel. Of course I hadn't understood any of it, but it had given me tingly feelings just mouthing the words out loud. “Bonjour,” I said brightly to Mrs. Roberts. “S'il vous plait?”

“Hello, Molly,” she said, peering round the shop.

Ello.
I almost tasted the accent.
Ee-llllooo.

I proudly handed her a sheaf of handwritten A4 sheets.

“And these are?” The eyebrow she was raising was just one hair thick. It gave her the look of one of Miranda's porcelain dolls.

“I thought that rather than just rely on the till's takings, I'd
write out each transaction in full today. That way you can double-check against stock and money. Make sure I'm doing the right thing.”

I expected her to be pleased. The whole procedure had taken much longer than I had expected and had held up the customers so much that one had left without buying anything, but it was what the assistant did at the card shop down the road and I wanted to prove I was just as trustworthy as him.

Mrs. Roberts ran her finger down the figures. “Very satisfactory,” she said, before screwing the pages into a ball and aiming them neatly at the bin. I held back a gasp. “No point giving yourself extra work though, is there, Molly? I always say action work is better than paper. And Mr. Roberts will continue to be absent tomorrow. You will carry on coping so well, yes?”

My disappointment quickly turned to pleasure. I straightened my shoulders until I was mirroring her perfect posture. “No problem,” I said. “I just hope he gets better.”

“And you, Molly, you will be going out tonight, I think? Somewhere young and romantic?”

Rrrromaantick.
I thought of Tim. We were planning to practice setting and breaking codes together in the park tonight. I nodded. “We'll probably go to the pub,” I said.

She smiled as if this was the right answer, and then slipped the cash from the till into a cloth bag and drew her jacket into her chest before taking a quick look round the shop.

“The box files look good,” she said as she left, proving Mr. Roberts was right. She saw everything.

“There's a lot I can do here,” I said. “I've got ideas.”

She paused in the doorway, her painted nails tapping on the woodwork. “I have been thinking that maybe on Sunday you and I could go through the whole shop,” she said. “Reorganize everything.
Mr. Roberts is a man. He doesn't understand the importance of detail. But you, I think that you know this. Would you like to work with me like this?”

I nodded and she rested her hand on my hair briefly. “You would look very chic with a chignon,” she said. “Maybe you will let me show you how to do it the proper way. The French way.”

I
put on Miranda's dress and went round to see her, buying two cream cakes at the cafe to help us celebrate.

“Mrs. Roberts is putting me properly in charge,” I said. “She's letting me help her do up the shop and everything.”

“Nothing I wouldn't expect,” she said. “Aren't I always telling you how clever you are?”

“You are.” I laughed. I danced round the shop, holding my arms out and twirling.

“Caref—” Miranda corrected herself quickly. “You just let it all out, darling.” She watched me, her arms crossed in front of her. “So how about a new hairstyle for the new boss?”

“Mrs. Roberts is going to teach me how to do a chignon,” I said. “It's a French hairdo.”

“I know.” Miranda stopped smiling and turned her back on me, bustling round, clearing up the towels although they were already in perfect order. “I
am
a hairdresser, after all. Although not French, that is true. Boring old English Miranda, that's me. But there's some that think that's good enough. Customers who come back month after month and don't complain.”

“I didn't mean anything. It just came out wrong.” And just as
quickly as that, I felt hopeless and deflated. I hated Miranda for spoiling everything.

She must have sensed my change in mood. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I've just got things on my mind. I can do you a chignon if that's what you want. It might not be perfect but—”

“It'll be perfect. Thank you.”

Something had changed between Miranda and me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it felt nowadays as if Miranda was always watching me, being too careful not to upset me. For some reason the image of Joe's perfect white teeth flashed into my mind.

“The dress looks nice,” she said. “You've certainly got the wear out of it. I've got more stuff at home you can have. It'll never fit me, but it will look good on you. I'll bring it over to you one day and you can try it on.”

“I could come to you.” I was turning my head from side to side in the mirror. “Miranda,” I asked, “is it just me or is my face looking thinner?”

She put her head down to my level. “I was wondering that myself, Molly. Are you sure you're OK? You have registered with a doctor and everything here, haven't you?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“That's fine then.” She carried on doing my hair in silence for a few minutes, but then I couldn't hold it back any longer.

“Miranda, why do you never really ask me anything?” I said. “You're not like other people. You don't seem to want to know stuff.”

“If you want to, you'll tell me.” She stood back to admire her work. My hair was scraped back all the way round my face, with two little tendrils curling down at the sides. It was pretty, but it wasn't perfect. Not in the way I knew Mrs. Roberts would do it.

“Do you want to tell me?” Miranda asked.

“No,” I lied. “There's nothing to say. But thanks for the hairdo.”

“You've lovely hair,” Miranda said.

“Like—” I prompted her, but she looked blank.

“Remember that thing we used to do when we first met? ‘If your hair was a film star, it would be a blond Elizabeth Taylor.”

“She had black curly hair.”

I sighed. “Never mind.”

“You must come for your tea soon,” Miranda asked. “Mum was asking for you.”

“I'd like that.” I tried not to seem too keen.

“And what are you doing tonight?” Miranda asked. “Going out with your famous Tim to celebrate?”

“He's busy. You don't fancy doing something, do you? A film or even a drink in the pub.”

Miranda laughed. “You and your pubs. No, I'm meeting someone. Another time, Molly.”

She opened the door for me then and I stood there, unsure whether to give her one of our old pecks or not. “Go on with you, silly,” she said suddenly, pulling me to her and giving me a big hug.

I waved good-bye to her from the street. I could see her through the shop window but she didn't seem to notice me. She stood in the middle with her arms out and twirled, just as I had done. She's happy, I thought. What's Miranda got to be so happy about?

I
went looking for new clothes, armed with a list of instructions Mrs. Roberts had given me and two twenty-pound notes she'd taken from the till and passed to me with a wink as if it was a secret we were sharing. I smiled back at her, guessing she was making a joke. She'd tut-tutted the first time I had told her that was how Mr. Roberts had paid me, insisting instead on leaving thirty pounds in a sealed envelope for me every Friday. “For the pocket money,” she called it. “After all, you are a lucky girl to have your lodgings here.”

I didn't want to tell her that the thirty pounds was considerably less than Mr. Roberts ended up giving me when he wanted extra time up the ladder. I could tell she thought paying me anything was a charitable act anyway, and besides, it was still more than the allowance my father had given me. I could just keep cutting down on food.

These twenty-pound notes were to spend on clothes so I could look more how Mrs. Roberts imagined a shop assistant to look. I kept getting out her list and reading it, although I knew it by heart by now.

Point number one: Buy the most expensive you can afford.
I went to
the charity shop farther up the high street and started flicking through the racks. There was only one other person in the shop with me, a smartly dressed businesswoman who must have brought in the two black sacks the shop assistant was sifting through. “Oh, thank you,” the shop assistant kept saying. “These are just lovely.”

I pulled out a floral pleated skirt and held it up against me in the mirror.
Point number two: Think of the ideal picture of yourself. Does the garment match this?
I put the skirt back and took out a red sequined minidress instead.

Point number three: Amusing things can be fun, but are always addons. It is more important to get your basic framework right.
There was a black waistcoat on the headless dummy that caught my eye. Worn over the top of Miranda's dress, I could see the ideal picture of myself as someone fragile and yet funky. “Could I try that on?” I asked.

The shop assistant, all tight curls and tight lips, kept sighing as she made a big fuss of taking it off the shop model and handing it to me. “You do realize it's a man's, don't you?” she asked in a loud voice that made the businesswoman giggle. I didn't have to look up to picture the raised eyebrows.

“Of course,” I lied. I would have bought it now even if I hated it, which I didn't. An idea was forming in my mind.

Point number four: Always, always check seams. They are an important sign ofhow well made the garment is.
I checked the waistcoat seams. No fraying. They'd even been double-turned. Inspired now, I left the women's section and started rummaging through the men's and then the boys.

Point number five: Individual style is exactly that. Individual.
I took armfuls of clothes back to the mirror.

Point number six: Think of the whole. However beautiful a garment is, if it doesn't match anything else in your wardrobe, you won't wear it.